Josh, my five-year-old precocious little boy
with a blonde bowl cut, romped into the kitchen for breakfast on his first day
of school. He was dressed in his favorite blue and green Lion King shirt with
matching shorts. His blue eyes sparkled as we walked to school: all the way
down the hall to the front parlor of our antebellum home where I had set up our
classroom. My husband and I had decided the year before that since I was a
certified teacher and since I was staying at home with Josh, his three-year-old
brother, Caleb, and was expecting our third son, Noah, that homeschooling would
be the perfect setup for our precious little cherub.

Josh was a typical child--maybe a little above
average in behavior because his father and I were strict, but loving, disciplinarians.
I assumed that I would have no problems teaching Josh, despite the fact that I
was certified to teach high school and had no training in elementary education.
I ordered the teaching curriculum from ABEKA after consulting several
homeschooling mothers who highly recommended it. A great curriculum full of
colorful and fun lessons, it outlined every lesson, even to the point of the
teacher’s dialogue. I was as excited as Josh about beginning our school year.

Josh began the first few lessons eagerly, but
soon grew bored and wanted to resume the “good ole days” of playing outside all
day and watching Barney. I often caught him trying to catch glimpses of
the singing purple dinosaur that blared for Caleb’s entertainment. Josh also
coerced Caleb into sneaking him candy while he was working independently. I
often called my husband at work to get him to play principal when Josh did not
respond to my teaching efforts.

Josh excelled in reading and had no problem with
phonics flashcards. “A says a, a, a,” he repeated. He was reading the little
primers in no time. But the other subjects challenged him, especially math. He
struggled to learn his numbers and often forgot the order in which they were to
be written during drills. Trying to be patient, I stopped him and made him
rewrite, showing him his mistake, much to his frustration and eventually to my
own. No matter what I tried, he had a mental block where numbers were
concerned. It was probably my own fault, however, because I actually hated math
myself, and I am sure he perceived this.

“No! It’s 64, 65, 66, 67,” I
instructed. “Try again. Remember, the numbers always go in the same order as
the twenties, thirties, forties, and fifties. He’s got those . . . why do
the sixties stump him?

“ . . . 64, 67,” he muttered.

We went through the drill several
more times—finally he said the numbers correctly.

“Now, practice writing your
numbers, 1-100, on the number chart,” I ordered.

After checking on Caleb and preparing sandwiches
for lunch, I returned to the classroom to check Josh’s progress. Left-handed
Josh was busily writing with his big navy pencil, the tip of his tongue
touching the side of his lip, deep in concentration. Oversized numbers filled
the red boxes of the writing pad: 62 6364 67 68

Pregnant and tired, I lost my
temper. Why can’t he get this? It is not that difficult! I grabbed a
red Bic pen in my trembling right hand. Josh’s big blue eyes looked up at me
innocently, his blonde cowlick sticking straight up, candy stains on his pouty
pink lips. “No, Josh!” I shouted. “I’ve told you a hundred times that numbers
fall in the same order! Why do you always mess up with your sixties?” Red Bic
pen in hand, I cruelly carved a large crimson X from one corner of the paper to
the next, my brown ponytail swishing in his face. Josh’s sweet face fell and
tears pooled in his large sad eyes. He sat despondent in his small wooden desk,
staring at the blatant rejection crossed in red.

Frustrated and needing a time out,
I walked into the adjacent room with Josh still in sight. What kind of
teacher am I? Evenworse, what kind of mother am I? Guilt washed
over me as I stood looking at the epitome of innocence. He really was trying
his hardest to please me, and I had failed him. I forced myself
to remember that first and foremost, he was my sweet little boy, and second,
that he was my student. I would have never treated another student in that
manner. Just because he was mine did not give me the right to treat him with
disrespect and impatience.

When Josh was in first grade, he began to show
the overt signs of Attention Deficit Disorder and was eventually diagnosed with
the condition. Josh, now sixteen, jokes that he still bears emotional scars
from that day; he remembers it well, and so do I. That event opened my eyes to
the impact teachers can have on their students. Back in the classroom, I now
make every effort to treat all students as special, giving them the respect
they deserve. Consequently, because I treat students with respect, they return
that respect to me, resulting in very few discipline problems. Although I am
sorry that I hurt my child, I appreciate the valuable insight I gained. Josh
and I both agree, however, that we never want to try homeschooling again.